Walking around the gallery it was impossible to escape a slightly ‘déjà vu all over again’ sort of feeling.  No sooner had you passed a portrait in the new exhibition by David Hockney, then the same person would be passing by in the flesh—often attired in exactly the same clothes worn for the portrait.  I could see we were all silently name-checking the portraits:  ‘Dagny Corcoran, check; Benedikt Taschen, check; John Baldessari, check…’; interrupted at intervals by looking up to see the same individual a few feet away.  “Oh hello, Dagny…” 

John Baldessari, check…

The subjects seemed to fall into roughly five groups: the famous and expected (Frank Gehry), the famous and unexpected (Barry Humphries—as Barry, not Dame Edna), the distinctly Hockney-linked subjects we knew personally or knew through associations (Celia Birtwell); those we were barely acquainted with (Julie Green), and the complete unknowns.  It looked slightly random at first, but then you realized there was a connecting thread.  With the staggered arrival of some of the subjects entering the gallery, it also assumed characteristics of a reunion—which it turned out to be, but not necessarily what might have been expected.  In other words, it had the makings of a smashing party.

Julie Green with her portrait

Dominique Deroche with her portrait

Everyone had a story to tell—about their first encounters with the artist, his work, fellow subjects, or mutual friends; the call from the artist to participate in the project, which was conceived very specifically as a series (“20-hour exposures,” as Hockney put it); or the experience of sitting for him.  Like Dominique Deroche, Joan Agajanian Quinn was wearing exactly what she’d worn for her portrait—a pale blue jacket-and-long skirt outfit she’d worn on her flight from Dallas to LA scheduled for arrival scarcely an hour before her appointment time—with her appearance at Hockney’s studio delayed by a long wait on the tarmac at LAX.  I assumed Hockney would be understanding.  “No—he was furious,” Joan recalled.  The jewellery—then and as she stood before me, was pretty serious, though; and I had to wonder how she dealt with airport security. 

Julie Green, who has photographed Hockney’s work for many years, talked about her portrait-identical outfit—a scallop-fan-swag patterned dress and red tights and recalled Celia Birtwell (conspicuously absent this evening) complimenting her on the same chic tights.

LACMA Director Michael Govan in the center

By this time the elevators were getting pretty full, so I took the staircase down to the drinks and buffet—the best way to say hello and congratulate the artist as he held court on the landing, flanked by Stephanie Barron and Michael Govan—with the artist’s brother, John, standing just a few feet away.  Don Bachardy arrived and posed for a picture.  It was the magic hour in LA of sunset fading to sapphire; and we were already feeling the glow. 

David Hockney with Stephanie Barron

There were dark moments lit by the living present.  There’s a story behind Jean-Pierre Gonçalves de Lima (Hockney calls him JP) burying his face in his hands that has to do with a death in Hockney’s close studio circle.  Ayn Grinstein (looking elegant) reminded me of her mother, Elyse’s lively presence—her portrait was apparently done not long after Stanley’s death.

Eileen Cowan and husband

Liz Young to the rescue

Kelly Berg’s shoes

Kelly Berg

Then there was the surprise of pals who were apparently too cool to mention they’d been called to sit for Hockney.  “What can I say?  We go back more than 25 years,” Doug Roberts (who knows everyone) told me.  Eileen Cowin stood not far off with her husband, taking in the scene.  It was a good night for shoes.  Hunter Drohojowska-Philp waved from some very serious platforms as she chatted with Michael McCarty.  I practically fell to my knees to study Kelly Berg’s pair as she strolled in with hubby Andy Moses.  I think I was still on my knees when Liz Young approached to see if I needed help.  (When don’t I?)  I was able to collect myself sufficiently to congratulate Todd Gray, charming as ever, on his Guggenheim fellowship. 

Congratulations Todd Gray!

It was the kind of evening where a gin-and-tonic felt like a health beverage—or at least that’s the way we seemed to be drinking them.  I was comfortable enough to share the story of my own humble first Hockney encounter with Michael Govan himself:  in a supermarket check-out line—flanked on the other side by actor/director Charles Nelson Reilly (of, among other things, Hollywood Squares fame).  In retrospect, I’m guessing that the location of Margo Leavin’s gallery on the opposite side of the supermarket’s parking lot had something to do with this.  But this, too, reflected a facet of LA culture distinctly shaped by Hockney and other British ex-pats—artists, actors, directors, designers—and the cross-town/cross-pond traffic amongst them.  It was a splashy, sunlit time Hockney had already immortalized in his paintings, and for a few hours Wednesday evening, we basked in its afterglow.